


Guest

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Multi, Possessive Behavior, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:37:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For some reason he thinks it impresses you when he's ill-mannered."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guest

A/N: I had two readers comment that this fic should be labeled "dub-con." I never intended this fic to be a dub-con situation; the way I wrote it, everyone involved went into the situation willingly, but things just didn't go the way they expected. (And though I have no first-hand experience, my understanding is that threesomes often end up that way.) If I had to append a warning to this fic, it would be that things just get kind of weird and intense. I still hope you enjoy.  :).

 

  


  
At this point, Lestrade could probably come any time he wanted to. But he didn't want to yet; he was enjoying himself. On the other hand, not having done this before he wasn't sure what the appropriate length of time was to fuck a man when his lover was sat a few feet away, waiting for his turn. And it didn't seem like the done thing to just ask aloud.

“Harder.” Sherlock rocked back on his elbows and knees, trying to get Lestrade inside him the way he wanted.

“No.” Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's hips, stilling him. “It's not about you right now. This is about what John asked me to do. John told me not to use you too hard. He's going to have a turn after me.” When he heard his own scolding tone, he paused to look at John, who was watching with quiet intensity. “Er, is it alright for me to talk to him like that?”

John gave a shrug of vague approval. Before they'd come into the bedroom, he had given Lestrade three restrictions: no rough stuff, no kissing, and he had to come inside Sherlock. So far nothing had happened that made John want to append the list. He said, “Listen to Lestrade, Sherlock. I don't want you fucked-out by the time my turn comes round.”

Lestrade didn't know what Sherlock liked. Normally he'd ask, but he wasn't sure he should be getting so familiar here. John had not asked him to please Sherlock.

Below him, Sherlock gave a soft, dark laugh. “Mmm. I always knew you wanted to fuck me.”

“Sherlock,” John scolded. “Be polite to our guest.”

Lestrade continued to slowly, gently pump Sherlock's arse. “It's fine. Yes, it's true, I always wanted to. And now I am.”

John was seated in the chair in the corner, by the chest of drawers. He was wearing denims and nothing else. To Lestrade's surprise, he was keeping his hands off himself, just watching intently. “How does he feel?” he asked Lestrade.

Lestrade grunted. “Tight.”

Sherlock shot John an impish glance and said, “Yes, you're much bigger than John is.”

John raised a dismissive hand. “I know I'm more than capable of satisfying you.”

Momentarily overcome by curiosity, Lestrade slowed his pace. “Is he always like this in bed?”

"He's just putting on a show for you,” John said, “like he always does. For some reason he thinks it impresses you when he's ill-mannered.”

Sherlock shoved himself back on Lestrade's cock several times, punctuating each thrust with a word: “Pay. Attention. To. Me.”

“Alright, princess, calm down. Everyone's getting out of here happy tonight.” But, obediently, Lestrade resumed his previous rhythm.

Occasionally he looked over and tried to puzzle out what was going on in John's mind. The man had a very open, expressive face, but tonight Lestrade could not decipher what he saw. Intensity, yes, but...Arousal? Fascination? Jealousy? He certainly didn't look pleased, but if he weren't, John was not the sort to put up with a situation he could easily put a stop to.

Meanwhile, Sherlock grew impatient. “Are you going to come or not?”

Lestrade was ready. He looked to John for approval. John nodded and waved him on.

As he sped up, pushed harder, Sherlock said, “Do it. Put it in me. John wants you to.”

It took only a few seconds for Lestrade to coax the tightness in his balls into a coil in his belly and then a bright, shuddering climax. Per John's instructions, he pumped deeply into Sherlock, and when he was done he removed himself carefully to keep what he left inside.

This time, when he looked to his right for approval, he found that John's expression had changed dramatically. The set of his mouth, the ferocity in his eyes, told Lestrade that he had better dismount Sherlock about _ten seconds ago_ and get the hell out of John's way.

John stood up and started to undo his denims. A rock-hard and angry-red cock sprang out.

Lestrade rolled to the far side of the bed. “Should I go now, or...?”

John did not look at him. He had shed his denims and was getting behind Sherlock. “You can stay if you like.”

“Er...I think, between the two options, staying would be slightly less weird.”

“Please yourself,” said John, not taking his eyes off Sherlock's arse. It was well for Sherlock that he had already been thoroughly prepared. John was not about to waste a single second here. He had never wanted to fuck so badly in his life.

“How do you feel?” he asked, as he pushed the head of his cock round and round Sherlock's slick, loose rim.

Sherlock said, “Wet.”

“Yeah? Wet and used?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm.” John dipped easily into Sherlock, taking two or three strokes before shoving it the whole way in. Each stroke made the most excitingly awful noise, a bit like a boot being pulled out of the mud. It would have put John off if he weren't so viciously turned on.

John closed his eyes, pumping Sherlock's willing body, feeling out the slickness of him. “Oh god, you did a good job, Lestrade. He is a fucking mess inside. Oh fuck...”

John leaned forward, keeping a tenuous balance with his knees while grabbing Sherlock's wrists and guiding his hands to rest on top of the headboard. At this angle, gravity set to work, and Lestrade's come dripped out of Sherlock each time John pulled back. It tickled the insides of Sherlock's thighs as it dribbled, and in his discomfort, he squirmed. John loved it, loved the feeling of Sherlock slowly and deliberately writhing around on his cock, so when Sherlock ceased, John continued to grind against him, moving in circles rather than in and out, touching places inside Sherlock that had not yet been touched that evening.

He pulled out abruptly, which drew a pained and confused noise from Sherlock. Sherlock's hole was well-used, slick and loose. John easily got two fingers inside him, and had a feel about. Lestrade’s come was squeezed out between those two fingers as they worked, and as it leaked he smeared it against Sherlock’s perineum with his thumb.

Sherlock didn’t appreciate this fiddling about, and gave an impatient huff. “I want to come,” he whinged.

John was hooking his fingers inside, trying to drag more of the come back out so he could watch it trickle down. “So touch yourself. I'm busy back here.”

“Push your cock back up into me.”

John snapped, “Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock, if you think that you are in any way in charge of what's going into your arse tonight, you are not the genius I thought you were.”

Sherlock's said nothing more. His stomach was doing somersaults. He himself had not one iota of control, or even influence, at the moment. John was completely out of his mind and beyond manipulation. Lestrade was there, but he had no power either, so it was no use for Sherlock to appeal to him. Everything was upside-down.

Now John had his cock pressed against Sherlock, using his it to push the come around and back inside him. “Tell me how dirty you feel,” he growled.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and told the mortifying truth. “I feel so filthy I can hardly stand it.”

“I am gonna make you filthier in a minute. I am going to _ruin_ you.”

With that, John began to fuck Sherlock again, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's chest and squeezing him almost too tight for breathing. He whispered ferociously into Sherlock's ear.

“You've been with another man. I can smell him on you. I can feel what he left inside you.”

Sherlock's face was red with the effort of pulling air into his lungs, and the muscles in his thighs burned with the exertion.

“But you don't belong to him,” John continued. “You belong to me. You're mine. I fucking _own_ you.” He pulled Sherlock off the headboard and into his lap, still gripping him, fucking up into him with all his strength. “Ride my cock. You're going to come on me and I'm going to show you who you belong to.”

Sherlock cried out at the sudden new depths that John’s cock was hitting. He jerked himself desperately, which transmuted some of the pain and shock into pleasure. A bolt of something that felt just like fear shot straight up his spine, and he shook uncontrollably. His orgasm was a relief, a promise of an imminent end to John's demands, of rest and quiet. But just as his cries of ecstasy began to trail off, John came, stabbing his cock into Sherlock's spent, overworked body, punishing his prostate, prolonging his orgasm internally. Sherlock had long finished ejaculating but was still coming and coming, shrieking, begging for an end to it. Every last bit of his energy was going into involuntary muscle contractions now.

As John gave his final thrusts, his arms relaxed for just a moment, until Sherlock's body threatened to fall. He re-established his grip, not so brutal as it was but still uncomfortably tight, for a few moments more. Then he gently, gradually lowered Sherlock to the bed, spooning behind him, whispering in his ear, much softer now: “ _Shh_ , I've got you. It's okay, _shhhhh_. Sherlock? I love you.”

Wide-eyed with shock, Sherlock managed one more gasp, as John's cock slipped out of him and he suddenly felt so empty. His body continued to convulse and tremble.

“ _Shh_. Oh, Sherlock, I'm sorry. I know sometimes I like to play a little rough, but you know you are everything in the world to me and I would never hurt you.”

John crawled up so he was half on top of Sherlock's limp, prone form. Sherlock's face was buried in his arms; the light was so bright, and he was quite overwhelmed by everything.

John whispered, “Did you have a good time, my love?”

Sherlock made a little ambiguous noise.

“Me too. Sherlock, why don't you thank Lestrade for visiting.”

 _O_ _h yes. Him._ Sleepy-eyed, Sherlock turned his head toward Lestrade, removing his face from the nest of his arms. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then quickly buried his face again and whimpered, like a shy child.

John gave Lestrade a sympathetic smirk, then turned back to Sherlock, muttering into the curls above his left ear.

“Tomorrow we'll do whatever you want to do, I promise. If you don’t get a case, we can walk across the park to Camden and go to that curry house you like, and you can stuff yourself full of pakoras, and then we can go to the morgue at Bart’s and see if any unidentified corpses have turned up. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Lestrade suddenly realised that nothing was stopping him from moving. “I...think I'd better be getting on...” He got up from the bed awkwardly, like the mattress was on fire but he was too well-bred to offend his hosts by mentioning it.

John sighed into the nape of Sherlock's neck, “You won't mind if we don't get up?”

“Not a problem.” Lestrade snatched up his clothes, pulled them on, ran a hand through his hair, tried to look like less of a rumpled mess.

John stretched one arm out toward the bedside table, flailed a little bit, then gave up on it. “Before you go, can you hand me that bottle of water? I can't reach.”

Lestrade came round to the other side of the bed, stepping just close enough so he could lean way over and retrieve the bottle. He handed it to John, who unscrewed the cap and held it in the general direction of Sherlock's face.

“Stop hiding and take a drink, my love. I know you're thirsty.”

Sherlock turned his head slightly, and wrapped his shaking hand around John's on the bottle. John guided it to Sherlock's dry, parted lips. “Yes, you worked so hard,” he cooed, as Sherlock drank most of the bottle in half-a-dozen long pulls. “You were perfect.”

Lestrade stood uncomfortably and watched all this like he couldn't be in a bigger hurry to get out but had forgotten how to leave. And yet, once he found his feet and turned to go, he paused once more with his hand on the door frame. “I wish I hadn't stayed,” he admitted.

John took the last swig from the bottle and turned to look at him. “Didn't you have a good time?”

Lestrade stared at the floor. “You two obviously have something very private going on that I shouldn’t have gotten involved in.” What he meant was, _I should have known better than to get between a sociopath and an adrenaline junkie._

John looked for a place within his reach to set the empty bottle, found none, and so tossed it to the floor. “Do you think you might come back and do this again sometime?”

“I don't know, John...” Lestrade had hoped he wouldn't ask that.

John looked imploringly at Lestrade while he stroked Sherlock's forehead. “It’s not going to happen all the time. You're the only one I trust to do this. Please just think about it.”

Lestrade went through the bedroom door, almost shutting it behind him but not quite. “I will do that,” he called back.


End file.
